


The Man Who Liked Wintergreen

by Lucius Parhelion (Parhelion)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1930s, Historical, L.A. Noir, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 00:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11368407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Lucius%20Parhelion
Summary: Mike is a canny shyster who will even defend deviants; Johnny is a street-level philanthropist whose hands are clean for 1930's L. A. They should have nothing in common, but there's a lot more between them than just the shady business -- and bodies -- building up around the Cranthorpe Settlement House...





	The Man Who Liked Wintergreen

I

Los Angeles wasn't a city where anyone was shocked when Mike Warren was nearly murdered on three separate occasions. After all, his luck was bad but not unique. During the twenties and thirties, there were enough stories like Mike's to inspire an entire genre of gritty mystery novels and crime movies in the decades that followed.

Mike was only a featured player in these real-life, Southern California melodramas, the sleek, fast-talking mouthpiece who showed up at police stations to warn, wheedle, or subtly apply pressure. But even these small roles were perilous from time to time. The Southland was often brutally corrupt, as were many of Mike's clients. It was something of a miracle that he had survived long enough to prosper, even while keeping to the sidelines he preferred.

In retrospect, that third attempted homicide was the least serious of the trio, if the most embarrassing. Mike almost died in a dingy alley during August of 1935 because the Honorable Judge Tolliver had recently found religion through some Holiness church or other and decided to quit smoking. For the sake of his mostly winning record in court, and given the frequency with which he appeared before Judge Tolliver, Mike had chosen to do likewise.

It made sense. What with the disreputable nature of Mike's clientele, Judge Tolliver disliked him, likely disgusted by the fact that Mike was one of the four lawyers in all of L.A. County known to accept casework defending homosexuals. Or the judge may have suspected Mike's private inclinations. Whatever the reasons, Mike knew the word preceding "lawyer" he had once heard Judge Tolliver mutter in open court, the one starting with an "f" and ending with a "t", wasn't facet or fidget. Since he liked his client enough to bleed for a win, Mike pretended the word was "fruit" and ignored it. Anyhow, he couldn't afford to smell of cigarette smoke and provide Tolliver with another irrelevant reason for judicial bias.

Not that Mike cared for cigarettes all that much. He had been sure it would be easy to give them up. But he soon discovered he was wrong, which had made early August seem to last four times longer than it did. Although he was doing his best, on the Monday evening in question he had stepped outside to have a little backslide by the ashcans behind Brook's Bar over on Olive Street.

Okay, he should have known better than to linger alone in a poorly-lit alley instead of accepting a light from one of the more promising fellows inside the bar. But Mike was counting on the sleazy atmosphere outside to remind him, the next time he wanted a Phillip Morris, that he had better ways to spend his evenings than on solitary, squalid puffing. Unfortunately, he hadn't anticipated the possibility of some mug with a gun arriving to compliment the seedy ambiance.

At least this wasn't a professional job or there would have been more shooting and less talking. Instead, "You stole my wife," was this mug's opening statement as he cocked the revolver. The fellow's hand was shaking in the light from the single bulb over the bar's rear entrance, maybe good, maybe bad. Amateur nerves played out unpredictably.

Slowly, carefully, Mike dropped his cigarette onto the stained red bricks of the alley pavement and ground it out beneath his heel. "Uh, no. That would not be me. In this case, I believe you've mistaken me for someone else."

"No, I hain't, Mr. W. Michael Warren, attorney at law and goddamned shyster. You're the fella who told her to leave me, all right."

Oh, Christ. Given the timing, this must be the ex-husband of that nightclub waitress, Mildred What's-her-name, whom Mike had helped run off with Jackpot Jim Parker. Of course, Mike hadn't handled the divorce himself, but he had been impressed enough by her marital war wounds to give her some inexpensive advice along with a couple of telephone numbers.

"I hope this is your first visit of the evening," Mike said, still cautious. "Most of the policemen I know don't react well to repeated ventilation."

He would swear he heard molars grinding together even from five feet away. Seemed as if Mr. Vengeful hadn't found anyone else to stand in for the newlyweds. Ever so mildly, Mike continued, "So I am your first visit. Good. If I'm the only one involved, this doesn't need to get out of hand."

"To hell with you. And to hell with Reno," was the bitter retort. Unfair: Reno was a great honeymoon resort for a guy like Jim, what with the legalized gambling and plenty of dude ranches where his fiancée could establish residency for a fast divorce.

"Sure. Reno's a dreary place. Why don't we have a drink and talk that over?" Mike asked, preparing to try dodging behind the ashcans.

That was when someone came pounding into the alley low and fast to tackle the mug around the waist, carrying him right into a tower of empty boxes stacked against the bar's wall.

Mike heard the crack of a bullet ricocheting off brick. He piled into the ridiculous melee. At least the struggle ended quickly, as most street brawls tended to do. The tackle had smacked Mr. Vengeful's head into a wall, and the revolver must have flown loose and skittered off somewhere. Mike felt no compunctions about making sure his attacker was out cold; better a bloody head and an assault charge for Mr. Vengeful than being hanged by the neck until dead, dead, dead. In fact, Mike was being a doll to stop punching when he did, especially since he didn't feel very charitable once he got up onto his feet and realized what had just happened to his third-best suit.

"Did you see where the gun went?" he asked his rescuer.

"Over by the crates of empties, those ones there." The rich, vaguely Midwestern voice was familiar. Mike's anonymous football hero looked away from wadding up a handkerchief against Mr. Vengeful's scalp wound long enough to point further down the alley, and light fell fully onto his features for the first time.

He was a thickset man somewhere in his late thirties, gifted with a strong-featured kind of handsomeness that seemed familiar. Dark eyes, sandy hair, and Mike wasn't checking any of the more interesting attributes right now.

Memory did its job at last. Mike's rescuer was the Reverend Johnny Breuer, part-time crusader and full-time do-gooder, spiritual advisor to assorted Los Angeles charities, distributor of inherited largess, and a character respectable enough to make Mike nervous. Their paths had crossed many times before but never in any way that mattered, at least not until tonight. Great.

Mike puffed up his cheeks and then blew out some air. "Okay. Okay. Better leave it alone. Thanks, Reverend. I'll call the cops."

"I'm thinking they might need to bring along an ambulance."

"It's a step up from a morgue wagon."

Breuer had a laugh like a crane's call when he was amused, which he must have been right then. "Won't argue that with you."

At least it turned out that having Breuer as a witness was like drawing the Get Out of Jail Free card from a Monopoly deck. Not that Mike would have had much trouble, not with his connections downtown, not after his assailant returned to consciousness and cursed Mildred, Mike, Jackpot Jim, and the Reverend Breuer, along with everything else responsible for his fix except his own rotten temper. But the presence of a well-known clergyman kept the cops' questions about the exact nature his relations with the former Mrs. Mildred Harris -- that was her name -- fairly clean and hurried up their questions. It wasn't even midnight when Mike got a grip on Breuer's arm, right before the reverend could ask some patrolman about the dangers of concussions for the third time, and headed them both toward Brook's.

A couple of the bar's braver patrons had already come out to see what was causing all the noise. They must have enjoyed someone else being worked over by cops for a change, given the specialized nature of the clientele. But these onlookers must also have carried back the details of the brawl with them. Even though Mike and Breuer were both in the kind of disarray that begged to be ignored, the waitress promptly arrived at their booth for an order.

"A whiskey sour, strong," Mike said to her. He looked over at Breuer. "Milk? Ginger ale?"

"Not tonight, given all that fuss and feathers. Beer. And you can stand the drinks," Breuer said, with the air of a man granting a favor. Very smooth of him.

"And a beer," Mike told their waitress. "Whatever's good on tap. Along with a couple of hot, wet towels, for which I wouldn't mind paying, not to mention some peanuts."

"Okay, Mr. Warren," the girl said. As usual, she gave Mike a needlessly sultry smile before hurrying off.

"You're known hereabouts," Breuer said.

It wasn't an observation Mike wanted him pondering. "You aren't. What brought you past that alley in my hour of need?"

"Taking care of an errand. Before that, I was at a board meeting over at Cranthorpe House discussing how we could make three-fourths of last year's donations stretch twice as far as they ever have before."

Breuer's geography made sense -- the settlement house was about a block and a half off Olive -- but the agenda made no sense at all. Mike rolled his eyes

With a shake of his head, Breuer said, "I agree. In the end, we decided to make three-fourths the donations stretch almost as far as they did before, but it took some time."

"Yielding to numbers usually does." Mike studied Breuer. "You didn't drive?"

"Why ever would I? Red Car's still running. And I confess I suspected I'd want a beer when we were done. This establishment seems quiet. Respectable."

Well trained, Mike didn't glance around the bar. Some nights the crowd at Brook's was more of a mixture of types. This was not one of those nights. Sure, everyone was in a coat and tie, but the Reverend must have spent enough time in L.A. to notice what was different about these customers, if he bothered to pay attention. Breuer was so evidently playing the worldly-yet-wholesome clergyman that Mike could not resist asking him, "Respectable? Really?"

He waited with interest for the reply. What he got was a frown, followed by a sudden look of crinkle-eyed amusement and, "Isn't it?"

After pursing his lips in appreciation at a good return, Mike said, "It's something of a den of vice."

"Then I'm in the right place, at least according to the gospels. A place where I can have my beer, too. Thank you, Miss," Breuer added to the waitress. He used one of the towels she had brought to clean his hands and face before he took a first, appreciative sip of lager.

Mike spent the interval in their conversation paying, washing up, and settling into his cocktail. When he broke the unexpectedly easy silence, it was to say, "So, I believe I owe you my life."

"Seems likely. A lucky coincidence since I've been meaning to look you up for some time now. I guess I might as well take advantage of the situation."

"Really. I'm surprised at you, Reverend." Mike wasn't, actually. Hero or villain, favors were still the currency of choice in this town. "How much advantage do you expect to take?"

"As much as I can get away with." Breuer took a deep breath. "See here, Mr. Warren."

"All right, I'm looking."

"From time to time, I run into trouble that's too murky for settlement house workers or reforming politicians to handle. Problems where the victims aren't the straightforward, photogenic sorts favored by the sob-sisters at the papers, even if their troubles are just as urgent." Breuer leaned back against the artificial leather upholstery of their booth before he made a show of glancing around the room. "Evil done to the rejected is still evil." For a moment, his eyes crinkled at the corners again. "I have learned that lesson well. But you seem to know it even better than I do. Word is, you specialize in getting all sorts of folks disentangled from their difficulties. Communists. Hoodlums. Scapegraces. Professional girls, even. Merciful work from time to time."

Offended, Mike retorted, "Not often. And I always charge what the traffic will bear."

"You do, although I've also been told the amount of your toll drops an awful lot on many of the poorer streets. Or in certain circumstances."

"As when a man has saved my life."

"How about that?" Breuer beamed. "Exactly what I was thinking."

After sighing out a mixture of exasperation and admiration, Mike said, "Two clients _pro bono_."

"Five."

"Four, but I get to tell you if there's nothing I can do. Any more than that, and we'll have to negotiate some other kind of exchange. Oh, and if the complications pile up too high, I’m billing you. What I've been told is that you can afford it."

"I imagine I can." Breuer paused in his drinking to scoop up some of the peanuts and shovel them into his mouth. As he looked around Brook's once more while he munched, his expression was slightly tinged with wistfulness. Without experience cross-examining witnesses, Mike might have missed it.

Perhaps the reverend's annoying insinuations that they shared higher principles were what made Mike ask silkily, "You're positive you've never visited Brook's before this evening?"

After swallowing his peanuts, Breuer said, "No." He studied Mike for several seconds and then said, voice low, "I need a certain kind of social standing to do my work, and even those policemen managed to be clear about what kind of place this is. Mind you, I'm not pointing out all the splinters in these patron's eyes while meaning to ignore what's in my own." He tapped one forefinger against the side of his nose.

Oh. That was…frank. And why was it that Mike could only spot the deeply hidden, scary fellows who were working out their bitterness on every visible homosexual within range? He was always being startled when some fellow Mary with cleaner inclinations dropped her veils.

Breuer continued, his words considering, "I suppose you're my lawyer now --my other lawyer -- since I've paid a sort of retainer."

"We can interpret matters that way, yes," Mike said. "Although you'd better hand me a quarter at some point just to be safe. But now that I'm your legal councilor, I should warn you to beware the possibility of blackmail. Discretion--"

"I'm not too worried about present company. It helps to be a decent judge of character in my line of work, and I've been paying attention this last hour and a half. You're safe enough."

For the sake of professional politeness, Mike stuck to sharing his sneer with the lighting fixture above their table. That earned him another of those whooping laughs, although the volume was much lower this time.

"You're still playing with fire," Mike said repressively, lowering his gaze to Breuer.

"And don't I know it. But from what I heard you saying about quitting cigarettes to that patrolman, you may have some understanding of my fix. I tried abjuring my sporting ways for years. But that was only making me into an oily hypocrite like one of those branch secretaries who's always angling for private, man-to-man prayer meetings with the handsomest youths at the Y.M.C.A." Breuer grimaced and so did Mike. "I'd rather be a liar than a poisonous, hypocritical liar. Less dangerous to all concerned, I truly believe. So, I gave up my congregation. Found other tasks. It'll have to suffice."

The reverend was still a hypocrite, in Mike's opinion, but almost everyone was. In fact, Mike feared the few people who weren't. During purity crusades, the so-called pristine often carried torches and pitchforks right behind the bitter hiders leading the mobs.

At least Breuer was shaping up to be one of the better kinds of influential charlatans, settled enough with himself not to cause accidental damage among the grubby peons. That matched what Mike had seen of the man's forays into social reform. Even so, Mike couldn't resist asking him, "You don't believe your ultimate employer minds?"

His words kind, Breuer said, "I believe that's not your business."

"Okay. Forget I asked."

With a shrug, the reverend added, "I will say I don't feel too guilty about supposedly working for someone who'd chose Matthew Levi, Simon Peter, Mary Magdalene, and Judas Iscariot to staff his business."

"Nice." Yes, a very nice justification. The fellow probably preached a decent sermon; he had the brass it took to deal with theology.

Done deciding, Mike reached into his suit coat's inside pocket and took out a sterling silver card case. He removed a business card to give to Breuer. "Here's my office address and telephone number."

"Thanks." Breuer disappeared the card into his own pocket with the swift grace that comes from a great deal of practice. Then he drained the last of the beer from his glass before pulling out a quarter and sliding it across the table. "And thank you for the drink. Here's your retainer."

"Duly noted." Now it was Mike's turn to study Breuer for a long few seconds before he asked, "Do you need a ride home?" The words came off of his tongue with a certain, unmistakably cajoling, spin to them.

He'd caught Breuer by surprise. The reverend tilted his head to one side and said -- was it apologetically? -- "No, thank you." A brief pause and he added, "I could make up some excuse, but it's actually a conflict of interest."

Mike nodded. He was a little disappointed, but at least this had to be one of the more interesting brush-offs he'd received in a while.

"And I'm not explaining those words. You're much too good at spotting the coat on the other side of any button you're handed. I didn't come in here meaning to display my whole wardrobe. As you know, there's such a thing as confidentiality." Getting to his feet, Breuer asked, "Do I need to tip?"

"You need to spend more time in bars, Reverend."

The snort was amused. "Now, when is a good idea not a good idea? Which reminds me." He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a pack of chewing gum which he handed to Mike.

Surprised, Mike took the pack and studied it. Clark's Teaberry, unopened. "Thanks, but I don't chew. It makes me look like a dairy cow."

"Better a cow than dead in an alley. Unless you mean to go back to smoking, and I wouldn't blame you if you did. But given what I've seen of the Honorable Harold Tolliver at a few community functions recently, you're wise not to provoke him while he's still running his gospel fever."

Without waiting for a response, Breuer slid out of the booth and stood up. "Good night, Mr. Warren. I'll be sure to telephone." Then he headed for the front door of the bar.

Left behind, Mike lowered his raised eyebrows. He examined the pack of gum again. Finally, he unwrapped a piece and tried chewing. Not too bad. Mostly wintergreen, a flavor Mike had always favored. It also seemed to push away his need for a cigarette to chase the whiskey sour.

Mike didn't linger long, and he left alone. He'd already pressed his luck hard tonight, and the last thing he needed was to be followed home by some vice cop who'd ask for a payoff not to cause trouble, at best. A murder attempt was enough fun for one evening.

Odd that the attempted homicide now seemed the less memorable of the night's big events.

II

The first two clients Breuer sent to Mike, one a Japanese farmer who had slugged a shady real-estate developer and the other a gal who had accidentally committed bigamy, were easy to help. Even the third, a rogue doctor who had tied himself into an amazing professional tangle involving contraception, left Mike with some useful names and telephone numbers once everything was unsnarled. Mike had also gotten Breuer to pay for a decent lunch after each appointment. He felt a twinge of regret when he answered another telephone call from Breuer and realized this would be the fourth, and final, referral.

The regret fizzled out a couple of minutes into their conversation, well before Mike hung up the telephone receiver and hollered, "Mrs. Henley!"

She promptly entered the corner office and asked, "You bellowed, Mr. Warren?"

"No, that was a startled cry of pain."

"Unsurprising. Whenever you start acting as if you were born in a trolley barn, I know you're upset over something."

Mike didn't bother with his baleful stare. He was long past that. When he had first hung out his shingle, Mrs. Henley had been the best secretary available who would work for a lawyer intending to accept the kind of casework he did. One look at her severe hair style and horn-rimmed glasses above that gray wool jacket and skirt, and Central Casting would have offered her all the jobs she could handle playing highly respectable office dragons. They both knew she'd been much too good for Mike, a prize he had only been able to keep because of the Great Slump and his willingness to ignore her occasional, irregular disappearances to deal with her trio of offspring.

"What will I be doing tomorrow evening at seven?" he asked her, more from habit than from hope.

"Nothing that's noted on your appointments calendar."

"Something needs to be added," he said gloomily. And now he was noticing it had been four weeks since his last cigarette. "Block out two hours for a meeting of the governing board at Cranthorpe House. The Cranthorpe Settlement House, I mean."

"They're having difficulties with one of your clients?"

"Worse." Mike opened his top desk drawer and reached for a half-empty pack of Clark's Teaberry gum. "I'm the newest member of their governing board."

Rather than laughing in his face, she said, "Then, since this will be your first meeting, you might want me to schedule two and a half hours." Mrs. Henley really was too good for him.

Sure enough, Mike needed the extra half-hour for a conference with Breuer and a Miss Marquez before the other members of the board arrived. Miss Marquez could have been Mrs. Henley's spinster sister if you ignored the brunette versus blonde, Spanish versus Anglo-Saxon, details. While Breuer was talking, she kept eyeing Mike with a dubious interest that reminded him all too much of his prep school Latin teacher. A few minutes of that, and Mike sat up straight in his chair, telling himself to pay attention.

Breuer was saying, "When the last meeting ended in another knock-down, drag -out fight, Harry Burton resigned. It's why there was a seat on the board open for you. But Mr. Kelly was provoking enough that one of his usual allies agreed to back our choice for a replacement sight unseen."

"You think Kelly was trying to shove my predecessor out the door?"

"That's my guess."

Mike turned to Miss Marquez, who visibly considered for a minute before nodding her head in reluctant agreement.

After drumming his fingers on the worn tabletop twice, Mike made himself stop fidgeting and said, "To summarize, this Mr. Kelly wants you to deal with your funding problems by relocating to a building farther east before selling this property, as well as certain other assets, belonging to the Society Trust."

"It seemed like a reasonable proposition," Miss Marquez said dryly.

"But not one you like. And my predecessor didn't, either, so Kelly got rid of him. That should've left the vote at four to three favoring the move, except you've managed to shove me into the vacant slot."

"We didn't have much in the way of time. Or choices. You're the best of lean pickings," Breuer said, not apologetic at all. "You have professional credentials."

"Ones that have nothing to do with charity work or real estate. Who was looking over the legal specifics of this proposal for the board before I showed up?"

"Arnold Jenkins," Breuer told him.

"Uh-huh. I'd wager that would be Mr. Arnold T. Jenkins, Esquire." Mike studied his fingernails. "Well-known attorney, advisor to the Merchants and Manufacturers Association, and valued acquaintance of our current mayor. A very respectable man. Very."

Miss Marquez stirred in her chair. "There's something about the way you say those words, Mr. Warren, which fills me with trepidation." Breuer hid what looked like a grin behind his hand as she went on to ask Mike, "Is there something about Mr. Jenkins that we should know?"

"Only rumors. No, facts more than rumors, but nothing that could be attested to by anyone nearly as respectable as Arnold T. Jenkins. Was he the fellow who got Kelly onto your board?"

"Effectively," Miss Marquez said. Then she pressed her lips together into a thin, tight line as she visibly caught the implications.

"Okay. You need to have the details checked again by another, independent attorney, one experienced at dealing with the more exotic possibilities in these kinds of situations. Do you want some names?"

Breuer and Miss Marquez looked at each other. It was Breuer who told Mike, "I guess we do. Even more, we want Mr. Jenkins stalled. He's leaning hard on the board to make a choice, his choice. It's nothing but grace that he has yet to realize Mrs. Norman, our other nay vote, is easier to coax than shove. He still might figure that out."

"And so, you're dropping me into his lap as a distraction."

"In a manner of speaking." Breuer's smile was seraphic.

"This should certainly be entertaining."

As a matter of fact, the meeting was entertaining. Breuer's allies must have managed to keep their mouths shut about Mike's appointment because Jenkins developed one hell of a frown when he spotted Mike after entering the upstairs parlor of the settlement house. Mike rose to his feet and offered Jenkins his toothiest smile along with a handshake. "Councilor."

Jenkins took Mike's hand as if he wished he'd been able to drape a handkerchief across his own palm first.

Kelly's arrival was even more fun. They had yet to formally meet, but Mike had seen this rust-haired Mr. Kelly at the craps table out on the _S.S. La Playa_ , one of the floating casinos moored past the territorial limit three miles into Santa Monica Bay. If Mike wasn't mistaken, Mr. J. Thomas Kelly had also enjoyed gambling on the _S.S._ _Johanna Smith_ before she mysteriously sank a few years back, as gambling ships sometimes did.

You could not say Kelly blanched upon noticing the latest member of the board, but the fellow did flinch. After his appointment had been voted on and approved, Mike made a point of staring blandly at Kelly all the way through Miss Marquez's report about the settlement house sponsoring eye examinations for poor children. Mike also smiled pleasantly at Jenkins, a lot.

Surprise must have thrown them off their game. Jenkins and Kelly barely resisted when the board decided to postpone dealing with their proposal until the following month so that Mike could have a chance to acquaint himself with its details.

Afterward, he let Breuer sweep him away before either Jenkins or Kelly could corner him and find out how the rules of their little game had just changed. Mike was not worried about Miss Marquez being coaxed to talk. She struck him as too tough a nut to be cracked open using civilized methods.

Once outside, Mike paused on the stoop. Breuer still did not have his car -- if all this got rough the reverend would have to stop being so careless -- but Mike certainly did.

"Would you like a ride home?" Mike asked, an offer that would provide the chance for a lawyerly lecture about safety.

"Thank you. Could we stop at your office first? I'd like to borrow your telephone."

Maybe Breuer did not lack all sense of self-preservation. Jenkins might wield enough influence at the telephone company to have Breuer's calls monitored. Whether or not the lawyer had taken the trouble to snoop probably depended on how much fiscal opportunity lurked beneath the surface of whatever was going on at Cranthorpe House. But tonight was too soon for Jenkins to have done anything fancy about Mike's arrival on the scene.

Mike told Breuer, "Of course. Although you'll need to pay me back for the telephone calls."

"You know, I'd be disappointed if you hadn't said that."

It was late enough by then that they had to take the stairs at Mike's office building. The elevator attendant had gone home, and Mike never made the night watchman fill in, a favor that provided Mike with privacy in return. Breuer didn't complain; aside from a tiny, occasional limp, he was noticeably fit for a fellow with his calling.

After he had locked the hall door to his outer office behind them, Mike turned on the lights. Then he went over to the receptionist's desk. Like any small business professional with a strong sense of self-preservation, he knew how to work his own office switchboard if he had to. Once he had made the outside connection, he gestured at the telephone on the desk. "It's all yours. Just come on through when you're done."

Although Mike could hear some faint traces of Breuer's voice through his office door, he skipped eavesdropping. Instead he spent the time jotting down a list of the chores ahead of him. Picking a fight with Arnold T. Jenkins was anything but a great idea, but Jenkins's handshake had been almost enough to reconcile Mike to the likely difficulties. The hilarity of being on the side of the angels -- at least, on the side of the somewhat more innocent group of so-called reformers -- for a change, along with a good chance to raid Breuer's bank account, would fill any gaps in his enthusiasm.

There was a knock before Breuer half-opened the door and leaned around it to ask, "Am I interrupting?"

"No. Are you done?"

"That I am."

"Then please come in and sit down. I didn't want to cause a scene at the settlement house, but you're looking at more difficulties than you may have anticipated."

Breuer nodded. He went over to sit in the green leather armchair by Mike's desk, the one reserved for clients. After leaning back and steepling his fingers, he asked Mike, "Trouble caused by Mr. Kelly? He was twitchy tonight, especially after you gave him that dead fish look for a while. Or are we talking about Arnold Jenkins? Now, he was livid."

Useful: Breuer could read a room. "Trouble caused by Kelly in combination with your Mr. Jenkins."

"Afraid he's not mine and likely never will be. Go ahead and give me the bad news."

"I'll be gentle," Mike said. He could not help playing up the phrase a little, but he tugged his mind back to business as he said, "All of you on the governing board know Mr. Kelly as an accountant."

"We do."

"Which is accurate but incomplete information. He's also interested in numbers during his off-hours. Mr. J. Thomas Kelly enjoys a wager, which may or may not be a problem. But I also believe he does work for a certain group of racketeers who have the ear of the Mayor's secretary, men deeply involved in professional gambling throughout Southern California."

Breuer obviously knew who Mike was talking about. "Now, that's a problem."

"It is. And also, a big hint that something may be wrong with this proposal, as well as a warning that you might get an emphatic reaction if you try to reject it."

Breuer's nod was as thoughtful as Mike had hoped for, but Mike wasn't expecting him to then say, "Thanks for the warning. You don't have to ride our merry-go-round again if you don't want to."

"Did I imply I was looking for the nearest exit?"

At the sight of Breuer's slow smile, Mike narrowed his eyes in irritation and said, "Don't think this is anything to do with some sudden outbreak of virtue. A legal fixer who runs out on a dirty fight is a man who should be in another branch of his profession. Look, I know you've taken me on as some sort of salvage job."

"Believe that, do you?"

Those words were enough for a snort. "You shouldn't go into this thinking I don't do my homework. Once I'd recovered from almost being shot, I had you researched. Back when you pastored a church -- Third Congregational, right? -- it was located about three blocks from where my secretary still lives. Mrs. Henley's people started in a part of New England where they're mostly Congregationalists. As well, she and your late wife attended the same ladies' seminary."

Breuer nodded amiably. "I baptized Esther's youngest. Hope to someday celebrate the marriage of her eldest. Did you also find out the family of Mrs. Mildred Harris, as was, belonged to my congregation?"

"I did."

"Good. I know you're sharp, but evidence is still soothing."

"Great. You're the one who sicced Mildred and her mug of a husband on me, weren't you?"

"After reaffirming her belief that her husband was dangerous, I couldn't properly do any more of what she needed done. Such work would have ended up in your lap anyhow since Mr. James Parker was already your client."

Breuer's gall was impressive. Mike needed a moment to rally with, "Yes, but I could have billed Jackpot Jim for the proper amount."

All his words won him was one of those whooping laughs and a, "True enough," before Breuer sobered.

Leaning forward, Breuer pointed his forefinger in the particular way only clergymen seemed able to manage. "See here. Would you stop acting like I'm trying to coax you into a temperance meeting tent? Even if my beliefs inclined in that direction, which they do not, we already had a chat about hypocrisy. I've learned not to confuse a desire to fornicate with the need to minister." He paused for a moment, lowered the finger, leaned back, and then added, "Although you're proving yourself a fine fellow in your own, odd way, for all the attitude."

Mike forced down his eyebrows. "What happened to 'a conflict of interest'?"

"That? Mostly confidentiality and a timing problem. When Mildred found out from a friend how her husband was running around this town spoiling for trouble, she telephoned all the way from Reno. The long distance operator reported you weren't home. So, she telephoned me, hoping I might find you and believing I wouldn't fuss. Since I did find you, I needed to telephone her back. Pastoral duty: you may have noticed she worries, with good reason in this case."

"Don't tell me how you knew where to look." Mike suspected his secretary had been involved, but some matters you had to pretend not to know about even when you did, if only for the sake of plausible deniability.

"It's no secret you've helped out the owners of Brook's Bar in the past and aren't overcharged for your drinks there. It was the third place I tried that day." Breuer shook his head. "I thought I'd be warning you, not saving you. There was the grace of… good luck at work."

"Wait. What do you mean, 'for all the attitude'?"

Breuer ignored him. "This talk is making me hungry. Do you want something to eat while you keep lecturing me? We could go over to Clifton's Cafeteria."

"Of course. The 'pay what you wish' restaurant, the 'cafeteria of the golden rule', run by one more philanthropist reformer." Annoyed, Mike rolled his eyes. "I'd bet he's a friend of yours. Your kind of fellow."

"He is a friend, but not my kind. Never wanted to commit indecent and felonious acts with Clifford. And don't try and convince me you freeload when you eat there. From what I've seen, you likely pay enough for yourself and two others."

"Oh, for the love of…You know what? Forget it." Mike shoved back his chair from his desk and stood up. "Come on. Let's go."

He'd managed to disconcert Breuer at last. "Go where?"

"Next door. My house is all the way out by the beach in Ocean Park. I use the smaller office next door for a law library, but sometimes I sleep in there. Landlords will endure a lot to rent out space these days."

Snapping his fingers, Mike said, "So come on. Let's go. Clifton's is open all night. You can still eat when we're done. And we'll never have a better alibi. I also brew after-hours coffee next door, and anyone sane would be drinking java right around now while discussing safety precautions, at length."

"Sane. I guess that does leave us out." Breuer unfolded from the armchair, his eyes amused again, damn him.

Many male homosexuals took to the parks rather than risk being turned in by snoopy neighbors. Mike had never been one for mosquito bites and unidentifiable stains on his trouser knees. He had also spent enough time dealing with the legal problems of his fellows not to wish those horrors onto himself, so he was much more careful in bars and baths than he seemed. This meant his chances for spontaneous dalliance were rarer than he would have wanted back when he was a carefree and careless Joe College trying to live out some Classical fantasy. Deprivation was likely causing most of the urgency he felt.

As for the rest of it, this case was getting to him. Since the Reverend Breuer seemed determined to drag Mike through every figurative swampy patch and tangle of thorny brush in the Los Angeles Basin, all in the train of some ridiculous crusade, he could damn well provide some compensation for the resulting nervous strain.

Somehow, when they were next door and Mike was unknotting his tie, all this came out as, "You owe me."

Breuer paused in neatly folding his undershirt in much the same, fastidious way he'd carefully hung up his suit by using one of Mike's hangers and the coat rack. Deliberately, he put down the shirt on a side table next to the banker's lamp. Then he straightened, looked quizzical, and asked, "Payment by cash, bank draft, or oral sex?"

Mike took two strides forward and laid both his palms flat on Breuer's well muscled chest. "You had to offer me a difficult choice, didn't you?" He could feel the slight prickling of hair, the rapid heartbeat beneath his fingers.

"I can try to make your best option clear." Leaning forward, giving Mike plenty of time to dodge, Breuer -- Johnny -- kissed him. There was a sweetness to the thin, strong lips that made Mike press forward into the kisses and tease his way into Johnny's mouth. Somehow, he wasn't surprised to taste wintergreen, clear and clean. There was also urgent inquiry in the way Breuer's tongue met Mike's. Mike couldn't have said whether his deepening the kiss into wet and aggressive passion was an answer or an evasion.

One thing was certain, though. The Reverend Johnny Breuer knew his oral sex. Ten minutes later, Mike wouldn't have traded that mouth for two weeks' worth of legal fees.

III

Mike examined his options with critical care. Then he used his thumbnail to work a Wint-O-Green Life Saver free from the roll's aluminum foil, flicked it into his mouth, and fought off a brief temptation to bite down on the mint. After all, the entire point of switching to candy had been to taste wintergreen without having to look like he was chewing cud.

He had timed his maneuver right. The wintergreen had soothed his nerves and smothered the need for a cigarette before Jackpot Jim got back on the line and said, "Sorry for the interruption. You wouldn't believe the show some of these waiters put on when delivering a little room service."

"It's fine," Mike replied absently, closing the upper desk drawer in which he'd dropped the rest of the roll. That left him gazing through one of his office windows at a couple of pigeons who had taken over a fire escape landing across the alley. There was a lot of billing and cooing going on over there. Were they sparring or courting?

"--no decent chili in this town, something that's gotta change. Anyhow, what was I saying?"

"This just goes to show how news travels between professionals."

"Yeah, even in these feuding days, can you believe it? Here's the short version. I don't know from Mr. J., but your Mr. K. is behind on his bills. And not only with us."

"The fellows from back east."

"Them's the guys. Not real smart, given how badly the Sicilians want a reputation for what you might call firmness. They need it, too, since they're trying to enter new lines of work these days."

"He's done some jobs for them. Would he still be in Dutch over his debts?"

"Heading that way, I'd bet. It's not like I'm bosom buddies with Mr. D.--" to call those words dry would be an understatement "--but I know Mr. D's kinfolk really value proper respect and due promptness. Your guy will be given more rope, but not forever."

"So, the clock is ticking."

"Ticking. There's the word. And then kaboom. Hey, I hear you're in with Johnny Breuer now."

A cat had appeared on the fire escape one floor up and was watching the pigeons. "It seems high-minded civic reformers have legal problems, too."

"No sense turning away anyone who can pay your bills, right?" Even over the crackling hisses of a long-distance line, Mike could tell Jim was amused. "Also, some good connections there if the local business climate ever gets too farm-fresh and wholesome."

"Sure. And speaking of good connections, how's Mildred doing?"

Jim's tone warmed. "Mike, she's a peach. An absolute pip. She's the best bet I've won in years. I really owe you."

"As long as you two lovebirds are happy."

"Happy enough that I'm eyeing this Reno berg for purposes of residence. The whole legal gambling thing's cute, and we could have some kids, Mildred and I. Right now, the weather's too stormy back in L.A for that to be a good idea."

"You're telling me?" Mike glanced at the clock on his desk. "Listen, Jim, I have to go. Appointment."

"Okay. I'm sending along a guy with some numbers and names for you. Mildred says don't be a stranger."

"You never did tell me what you wanted for your wedding present."

"Already got it, pal. Too bad about Mr. Harris's future vacation prospects in San Quentin. I hear the natives can be restless. Bye." Jim hung up.

Mike sighed. He replaced the receiver and swiveled toward the desk drawer with his Wint-O-Greens in it. As he did, his gaze passed across the same window, paused, and sharpened to attention. The pigeons were so busy they hadn't noticed the cat's stealthy approach.

A couple of steps took him over to the lower pane of the window, open to catch any westerly breeze that might help with the autumn heat. "Hey! Scat!"

The cat only gave him a dirty look, but the pigeons flew off in a flurry of wings. Down at the end of the alley, a guy in gray suit was leisurely lighting a cigarette, damn him. He didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. In fact, whenever Mike had spotted him these past few days, he hadn't been in a hurry. Easy to spot, yes, but that was probably part of his job.

Shaking his head, Mike returned to his desk and sat back down. Then he called Mrs. Henley out front. "Is Breuer here yet?"

"The Reverend just arrived. Shall I send him in?"

"No, we're going out to eat. There'll be a messenger arriving from Jim Parker with some paperwork for me. Check the signature on the envelope for tampering before you put it in the safe, please."

"Yes, sir." How she could get so much attitude into those two words, Mike would never know. He got up to retrieve his hat and suit coat from the rack.

Out in the reception room, Johnny greeted Mike with a broad smile and a hearty handshake. But Mike had the experience now to sense something shadowed behind his eyes. "Lunch?" Johnny asked.

"It's Friday afternoon. I have two hours free," Mike said."Where are we going?"

"Clifton's." That meant Johnny had touchy matters to discuss. Eavesdropping during the lunchtime rush in Clifton's was like trying to time a dripping tap during a dogfight.

"Sounds great." They both headed for the door to the hallway without further discussion.

In the elevator, Johnny began chatting about pinochle, a game they both played and liked. When they had said enough about pinochle, they started in on college football, which kept them busy for the couple of blocks of their walk along Seventh Street.

Even for their sort of men in this so-called City of Angels, all of life wasn't lived lurking in the dark. Mike had enjoyed the time he'd spent with Johnny much more than he had expected, given that their outings had begun as cover for both the Cranthorpe House investigation and their sexual involvement. He had learned they got along well, sharing some hobbies and getting each other's jokes. Johnny was always interested in a debate and heard a lot of the good rumors Mike missed since a reverend frequently knew different characters in the same neighborhoods. And sex with someone Mike was learning to trust was proving to be as pleasantly soothing as smoking, or winning a trial, or wintergreen.

They entered the branch of Clifton's on Broadway, picked up trays, and somehow managed to find an empty table. Mike didn't try to hide the fact that he actually did overpay in Clifton's since he had never figured out what Johnny thought that was supposed to prove. And Mike was trying to behave the same way he usually did. It was one way not to lose your nerve while being followed.

"Clifford hopes to someday redecorate this place," Johnny said, which gave him a good excuse to glance around at the surrounding tables for signs of undue interest.

"Oh?" Mike asked, poking at the brisket on his plate with a fork.

"He's thinking about rustic surroundings. Trees and waterfalls."

Mike didn't snort at the notion of a waterfall in a "Dine Free Unless Delighted" cafeteria. Fornication certainly was sweetening his temper.

Without a change in tone or volume, Johnny said, "The auditing attorney's report arrived. None of us paid much attention to the Cranthorpe House Trust getting money from a pair of rural properties down by Signal Hill. It's not much money, after all. For some reason, the Trust leased the mineral rights for those acres cheaply, appallingly cheaply, not long after the big oil boom began in '32."

"Let me guess. That also wasn't long after Mr. Jenkins graciously accepted a position on the governing board?"

Johnny was mashing his peas now. "Yes. The accountant for the board back then -- the one Kelly succeeded -- was a Cranthorpe relative getting on in years. Miss Marquez told me he deeply appreciated Mr. Jenkins' help with the work and with finding a good independent auditor."

"I see. Will there be some sort of inspection of all the Cranthorpe holdings, including the properties floating on oil, if the current trust is significantly changed? Perhaps, in that case, there's an ability to renegotiate the leases or sell the land? I'd wager the trust would have to be altered if we were to move the settlement house."

"You'd win your bet."

"What a great chance for a second round of collecting bribes from the oil lessee. Or prying the properties all the way loose from the trust. Or blackmailing someone for past collusion. Maybe all three possibilities at once."

Shaking his head, Johnny said, "I don't think I'd want that fight with any of the local oil companies."

"Our two sharpsters may have an inside ally in Big Oil." Mike shrugged. "Alliance, extortion, assault: sometimes you can't tell the difference around here. That part of their plans is almost irrelevant. What matters right now to Cranthorpe House is that Kelly needs money soon. He has large debts with nasty creditors. Jenkins may be patient, working toward long-term goals, but I worry about what Kelly may try."

Giving up on the peas, Johnny sighed. Then he said, "Meeting of the Board's on Monday."

"I know. Perhaps Miss Marquez should be careful for the next few days. And Mrs. -- what's her name -- Mrs. Norman. Maybe they could both visit friends."

"Funny you mention that." Johnny slowly smiled although the expression only reached his mouth. "We both had the same idea, Ina Marquez and I. Miss Marquez has grown to be quite close with Mrs. Norman and will be guesting at the Norman's lovely house in Lafayette Square this weekend. Miss Marquez intends to have a long talk with the couple."

Mike tilted his head in interest. "Oh?"

The lip twitch he got in reply was one of weary amusement. "The Normans are close connections of the Chandlers.

Mike nodded. The Chandler family ran the _L.A. Times_ , which had helped run the city into its current corruption. And the paper's power was still growing, as was the Chandlers'. As much as everyone liked to pretend otherwise, the uppermost members of both the corrupt and reforming cliques were alike enough to sometimes be the same people.

Almost irrelevant. Now that he knew the ladies were, to some extent, protected, Mike turned his attention to present company. "So, I hear it's going to be a scorcher of a weekend, especially for autumn."

With the air of a fellow following a cue, Johnny said, "The Santa Ana winds will be blowing."

"And you, my friend, are in a one bedroom apartment over on Pico, having sold your house in Angelino Heights after your wife died."

This new smile crinkled Johnny's eyes. "More research?"

Mike ignored the question. "However, I, as you know, own a house by the beach in Ocean Park where it is very peaceful and there are refreshing sea breezes."

"And hot sand."

"You can wear shoes. We have cooling ocean waters."

"Hot sand and fog."

"Rarely both at once. I'm inviting you to spend the weekend with me." Before Johnny could argue for the discretion Mike would otherwise have encouraged, Mike told him, "It's a classic act of charity, a friend providing a cheap vacation for an overworked and underpaid member of the clergy. I'll introduce you to the neighbors. They'll be impressed."

"Don't you mean surprised?"

"They'll also be surprised. You need to think of this as a precaution you're taking for the sake of my nerves. Why should I worry about how well you'll take the heat this weekend when I can have you over to visit?" Mike used his most obviously meaningful look, the one with the raised eyebrows and the intent stare.

When Johnny slowly nodded, Mike relaxed and said, "Good. Can you swim?"

"Like a fish, as long as I don't strain my weak calf."

"That's the price you pay for playing college ball. When you come to my office this evening at six, don't forget a change of clothes, a swimming suit, and some liniment. We can take my automobile. Are you going to eat that banana pudding, or is it more entertaining to stir?"

"Eat. Sounds as if I'll need the food energy."

When Mike returned to his office, there was no sign of the fellow in a gray suit. But Mike was fairly sure that the other fellow in a blue suit, or in work clothes and a cap, or in whatever else an inconspicuous tail might be wearing, was following him with no difficulties.

Upstairs, Mrs. Henley had disappeared on one of the mysterious errands involving dentistry that women with children always seemed to have. Friday's weren't one of Yolanda's afternoons for typing and switchboard duty, either. Mike made his own connection to an outside telephone line.

"Chauncey, Jenkins, and Reed. How may I direct your call, please?" the female voice that answered his call enquired.

"This is W. Michael Warren, Esquire. I need to schedule an urgent appointment to speak with Mr. Jenkins."

Mike hoped this telephone call wouldn't take too long. He had a lot of calls to make, and it was hard to reach people on a Friday afternoon.

IV

"Did you say something during lunch on Friday about 'very peaceful' and Ocean Park?" Johnny asked Mike.

"Yes, I believe I did." Mike saluted a giggling couple out on the sidewalk, who had just waved at him for no apparent reason, with his half empty glass of lemonade.

At ten in the evening on a Saturday in Ocean Park, visitors were still getting lost and wandering up Mike's residential street in search of shortcuts between the fun zones on the beaches and the late-night bars and restaurants further inland. It wasn't surprising. Mike's house was on a street corner about three hundred yards off the beach, with what would have been a great view of the sea from the side windows if the previous owner hadn't grown hedges in a vain effort to block the noise from frequent passers-by.

Mike and Johnny were sitting out on the small front porch in a pair of whitewashed Adirondack chairs after having spent the past few hours chatting amiably with some of Mike's neighbors, all very respectable. Everyone was staying up late tonight. Even well after sunset, even this close to the cool Pacific, the temperature was still above eighty and the Santa Anas were blowing. Those dry gusts off the desert were strong enough to ruffle hair, rustle Mike's hedges, rattle the fronds of the palm tree in his front yard, and pick up sand from the beach across the way to spread it, hissing, all along the sidewalks. Such winds could get into a man's dreams if he let them. Neither Mike nor Johnny had felt much like sleeping.

Extending one arm in a move that would have looked great in a pulpit, Johnny gestured toward both the beach side of the house and the thin but constant stream of people walking up and down Barnard. "Is that what this is? Very peaceful?"

"Remember, I'm a city boy. The traffic is normal for around here. Normal means visitors. Visitors mean money being spent. Money being spent means my neighbors are happy." His neighbors being happy meant they weren't dedicating time to resenting him for having a stable profession, was what Mike didn't say. "Happy neighbors are peaceful neighbors. Loud parties are for visitors."

"As to that, some might expect the beach to be a touch quieter, more serene than this."

Mike's shrug likely went unseen in the dim. In Ocean Park, he was surrounded by folks who might wrestle with their troubles or cultivate their evils, but who weren't doing it right now in any way Mike would have to fix. Instead, they mostly wanted some fun, a little happiness. And, by and large, they seemed to be finding both.

He tried explaining. "This is serene. The last couple of years no one was coming and the silence got so loud it boomed like the ocean. This year, Pacific Electric finally dropped the Red Car fares to the piers from fifty cents to thirty-five cents and all the visitors came back. In its way, that's peaceful, too."

"I'm surprised it took the company so long to bow to business circumstances."

"It might be the right fellow hadn't talked to the other right fellow yet," Mike said vaguely. "A little nudge, the proper incentive, can go a long way toward helping such matters along."

"Now, somehow your saying that doesn't surprise me at all." Johnny's amusement was audibly clear.

"I like this place. The ocean is great, but the people are also a part of it. Too bad more of life doesn't resemble the beach."

Even without looking, Mike could tell he was being studied. After a thoughtful pause, Johnny said, "Well. I'm turning in. Tomorrow morning's Sunday, and I hope to accept that invitation to attend services with Mr. and Mrs. Higgins."

"You'll be a big catch," Mike said lazily. He drained the last of his lemonade, considered, and said, "I guess I'll be going to bed soon, too. But feel free to use the bathroom first."

Mike took his time locking the front door behind them, flipping closed the Venetian blinds in the living room, and washing up the glasses in the kitchen. When he went into his bedroom, he turned on the floor lamp while he removed his shirt and shoes, and then turned it off again before he went to use the bathroom. Although Mike was walking softly in his stocking feet across the dark hall, just in case Johnny was trying to doze off, he wasn't really surprised when his arm was gently grasped and he was tugged into the tiny guest bedroom.

The fan on the ceiling lamp's fixture turned slowly overhead in the dark. The regular, lazy swish of its blades contrasted strangely with the harsh, unbalanced sounds of the Santa Anas as they shook the house and then died down only to rise again. Johnny took his time undressing Mike, something he liked to do. His big hands were precise and attentive, possessive as they slid across Mike's skin and then a little rough as they caressed and teased.

Johnny smelled of salt water and wintergreen. He had slightly pulled his calf earlier, when they were across the street at the beach. Later in the afternoon, Mike had watched Johnny slowly rub liniment into his leg, the muscles of his arms flexing as he worked, an expression that mixed concentration and control on his face. The entire living room had smelled of wintergreen.

Mike had wanted to drop to his knees, push the strong hands aside, and press his face against the inside of Johnny's thigh where that sandy line of hair disappeared beneath drying swimming trunks. Since all Mike wanted next was to rest there against Johnny, linger quietly in that warmth, he hadn't known what to do with his desire. Now in the dark with the hot winds blowing, naked and with his own pulse racing, Mike knew what to do. Sex was simple that way.

You never were entirely done with the beach. There would be sand later in the bed sheets they were sharing. Mike was finding fugitive grains as he ran his tongue slowly along the smooth skin and coarse hair that trailed down Johnny's stomach, across the hip bone padded by muscle, toward the aroused cock that was as pleasingly stocky as everything else about his bed partner. Mike paused to trace the long vein along the shaft and then nuzzled Johnny's groin. He took his time over the varying tastes and textures of skin -- silk-smooth on the head, wrinkled tight around the sacs -- but his rougher needs wouldn't wait forever. Parting his lips, he wrapped them around Johnny's cock, taking it in as deep as he could manage. He allowed himself a small, greedy noise of pleasure before he started to suck.

It seemed too soon when Johnny grunted harshly, a muffled quality to the sound that meant he was using his own hand to stopper his excitement. Then Johnny's hips jerked roughly beneath Mike as he came in Mike's mouth. Mike worked him through the spending, swallowing all of what he could get, releasing the softening cock reluctantly when Johnny sighed and reached down to gently push him away. Then Mike settled onto his back on the sheets, enjoying the slight breeze from the ceiling fan and the lingering taste of an illegal pleasure on his tongue.

Pier and fun zone attractions didn't close until midnight on hot autumn Saturdays like this. A little light seeped past the venetian blinds and hedges from the direction of the beach, and Mike's eyes had adjusted enough for him to faintly see looming bulk as Johnny sat up next to him. Then the dark shape moved, twisted around, and wet heat suddenly surrounded Mike's aching cock. Mike reached up above his head to grasp two of the rails in the painted iron bedstead, squeezing them hard, and held on as Johnny worked. In the end Mike yielded, first with a stifled whimper and then a low moan.

Afterward, Mike felt satiated but dry, as if the sex had somehow wrung all the water, pop, coffee, and lemonade he'd been drinking that day right back out of his body. Johnny had settled next to him on the narrow bed, and his breathing had slowed but not in the way it would have if Johnny slept. Outside, the wind had knocked over a trashcan and was rolling it down the street with all the noise that might be expected. Faintly, Mike heard a couple of women shrieking with glee.

"I still can't sleep," he said up into the dark.

"Me, either," Johnny replied, voice equally soft but wryly amused. "And if that didn't do it, I don't think anything will."

"I have to agree. Get the bedside lamp, would you? You can have the shower first. I'll turn on the light in my bedroom after you're in there, make it look like you woke me up and I decided to follow your example in trying cold water."

"How about some more lemonade afterward and a couple of hands of pinochle?"

"We should be discussing Monday's meeting. But, no, you're right. Cards would be more soothing."

When Johnny got up to start his shower, he paused to kiss Mike. He tasted of sex, mouthwash, and himself. Mike lingered to enjoy the mixed taste, the only thing he'd found in the past few months that worked as well as wintergreen.

It had all been slightly dangerous and very illegal. But, by the time the knock came on Mike's front door, midnight was near and they were doing nothing worse than razzing each other's skills at winning tricks in pinochle. Johnny had stripped to his vest and shirt, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and looked so delicious in a smoke-filled-room kind of fashion that Mike had to force himself to shift his gaze to the front door.

"Uh-oh." Mike realized he was frowning as he recalled the danger.

Without a word, Johnny stood up and moved out of the line of sight to the door even as Mike went to open the little iron hatch on his peephole and peer through it. There was a lot to be said for worldly clergymen in certain circumstances.

Kelly was outside on the front stoop.

"What do you want?" Mike asked harshly.

"In," Kelly said, holding up his empty hands. He looked frantic. He also didn't seem to be armed, but Mike would admit that wasn't his great field of expertise. Still-- Turning, Mike looked at Johnny with eyebrows raised. Johnny shrugged and then nodded. Mike turned back to the door.

"Okay," Mike said, still through the wire mesh in the peephole. "But stand away from the door while I open it. You'll end up sad if you try anything supposedly amusing. And keep it down; it's late, and I don't want to bother the neighbors."

Except for the rusty-red hair, there was nothing memorable about Kelly's looks. You could have cast him as the accountant in any low-budget movie, although he appeared more like the one who belonged to the Rotarians rather than the one who robbed the settlement house. However, his attitude tonight was truly memorable.

As Kelly came inside, he glanced around Mike's living room, his gaze never resting on any one place or thing for more than a second or two. He gave the impression of being on the verge of twitching. A tic had started up at the corner of his right eye. He could have served as an illustration of the demoralized man.

His first words were memorable, too. "There was a bomb on my lawn."

"And?" Belatedly, Mike realized he'd earned that exasperated look from Johnny with the single-word question. But most of Mike's mind had been busy as he spoke, trying to fit this latest piece into its place.

"And what?" Kelly asked Mike in turn, using one of those dangerously reasonable voices that made listeners feel hysterics weren't far away. "There was a bomb on my lawn."

The puzzle piece clicked home. "I didn't put it there."

"Sure you didn't. Not personally. That's what telephones are for."

It was true; Jackpot Jim could have decided to return a favor for a favor without consulting Mike… Mike pushed his unease away. Jenkins would obviously rank higher on Mike's list of irritants, and Jackpot Jim didn't like explosives. "I'm a lawyer. I don't like violence. Not to mention, given all the characters with whom you've chosen to consort, why are you putting the blame on me?"

"Why not? Everything was fine until you got involved." Somehow Kelly's wandering gaze lit on Johnny. "You're the one who dragged him into this. Why?"

Johnny almost seemed sympathetic. But his voice was gently unyielding as he said, "Because you were systematically robbing the Cranthorpe Settlement House Trust to help pay for your gambling losses. No great mystery."

"I would have returned…" No, he wouldn't have, and even Kelly seemed to know it. He trailed off. Then he said, "It has to be you. Has to." Hysteria was closer; he must suspect who was really responsible, and he was scared.

Mike sighed. It almost made his tongue hurt to say it, but, "Go to the police."

Both Johnny and Kelly paused to stare at him, but Kelly was the fellow who was frantic. A second or two of silence, and he asked hoarsely, "Are you crazy? A bomb! On my lawn! That _was_ the cops!"

"That's the bunch in L.A. you're thinking of, not in Santa Monica. If the police around here tried using dynamite, they'd blow themselves to kingdom come. I doubt they're involved. So, you can go to the cops, or you can run. But whatever you do, you'd better do it soon. The L.A.P.D. aren't the only ones who know about using explosives to remove problems. For example, Mr.--"

They all heard the loud knock on the door and the "Open up! Police!"

Kelly froze like a rabbit in a pair of headlights. Mike seized this chance to go open his door and ask politely, "Yes, patrolman?"

"We've had a complaint about noise," the uniformed policeman said, looking oh so very stern. Great. The fellow was doing everything but winking surreptitiously at Mike while yanking a thumb at Kelly. And was Mike the only one who remembered this was the house of a lawyer, where the police were unlikely to ever be invited in without a warrant?

Still, Mike tried soldiering on. "Oh. That's too bad. Would you like to come in?"

He stepped to one side. Which, of course, was Kelly's cue to try sapping him on the head with a peacock bookend.

The knickknack was cast in bronze and might have hurt, but Johnny swung around and splashed the contents of the bottle of liniment he'd left in the living room earlier into Kelly's eyes. Mike ducked, Kelly shrieked and reeled around while waving the bookend, and the uniform in the doorway stood stock still, gaping. Then the patrolman pulled himself together and charged Kelly along with the plainclothes guy who'd been hiding out on the porch, while Mike plastered himself back against his own wall. Nothing too significant got broken while they subdued the still shrieking Kelly, but Mike was never getting the smell of wintergreen out of his carpet. It was just as well he liked the stuff as much as he did.

 After everyone left at last, Johnny was helping Mike clean when he suddenly straightened up and said, "Wait. You had a detective watching your house?"

"Yes, in case of trouble. They weren't too difficult to persuade. I have a better reputation out here than downtown, and the Santa Monica police are territorial. It hasn't been hard to make friends."

"No, that's not what I meant." Johnny levered the clerical forefinger at him with a glare. "You mean we were indulging in fornication while a detective was watching your house?"

"Why do you think I was so careful about the lights? I promise, I wouldn't have let you make too much noise."

"Is that so?" Johnny didn't seem to truly expect an answer to his question. Instead he glared for a few seconds longer, lowered his forefinger, and then slowly shook his head before saying, "On that edifying note, I'm turning in. Sleepy or not, proper use of lights or not, there are too many eyes on us now. I have church tomorrow. And I sure don't want to be sleepy going into the week ahead of us."

Mike had no problem believing him at all.

The weekend might have ended on that amusing note if Mike hadn't picked up the telephone receiver the next afternoon, right before they were about to leave for L.A., in order to have the kind of conversation he hated the most. When he hung up, he turned to Johnny, who was already watching him intently, and said, "My best buddy on the local force."

"Not good news." It wasn't a question.

"Nope. Kelly had started talking, but then someone woke up a judge and made his bail early this morning."

"They let him go?"

"They did. He wasn't eager, but he went. And, in an amazing coincidence, he was killed in a hit-and-run this afternoon."

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut and his lips moved silently for several seconds. Then he opened them again to slowly shake his head.

Looking down at the stain on his carpet, Mike continued, "That may have been my fault."

There was a pause before Johnny asked, "Oh? How?" His voice was neutral, grave.

Mike had to look up and see Johnny's expression as he talked. "I half-warned Jenkins trouble was coming by making an appointment on Monday with him. I wanted to talk to him about what he'd need to do to keep this from crashing down on him full force. He's the sort of fellow who's most dangerous when surprised. I didn't realize he might be able to move faster and more definitively when not surprised. I never thought past protecting you and the settlement house. Mrs. Norman and Miss Marquez."

Johnny nodded slowly. "All that's reasonable enough. Underhanded, but reasonable enough." He hesitated and then added, "I hope you would have spoken to me before the meeting."

"Yes. Maybe. I'm not sure." Mike waved a hand in irritation. "All right, I don't know. This affair has been even dirtier than usual and you're so, well, so clean. Like wintergreen. You're hypocritical, sure, and perverse like I am, and amazingly bullheaded about your little crusades, but clean. I don't know. I…" Mike ran down and clenched his teeth.

"Mike."

"What?"

"Just remember to always talk to me first."

Mike swallowed against a dry mouth. "Okay. I think I can do that."

"And one other thing." Johnny was still staring at him with that solemn expression. "I think you should know. I love you."

"Oh. All right." And there's a polished response, Councilor. "It was beginning to show." Mike took a deep breath and let it out. "I might also…yes. At least, I believe so."

The smile was slow in coming but devastating when it arrived, formidable as that first football tackle. "Well. In my former line of work, belief was where you started."

"Ugh."

Some part of him was desperately grateful when Johnny ignored the comment and squeezed his shoulder before walking back into the guest bedroom to finish packing.

It took Mike half a roll of Wint-O-Greens to get to sleep that night. At least he dreamt of nothing worse than Johnny in the cool surf, and kisses.

V

The appropriate expression for this sort of announcement should be that of a man deeply stricken but still dignified. Mike thought Jenkins was modeling it well as he said, "And so, given my evident lack of judgment in the face of this systematic, even felonious, abuse of my trust and the trust of all the dependents of the Cranthorpe Settlement House, I feel I have no choice but to resign from this board."

Miss Marquez nodded briefly. There was a murmur of faint protest from Jenkins's remaining two allies. Mrs. Norman stared flintily at him as if she would be happy to make this disgrace permanently visible with tattooing ink on his forehead. There was someone who would be taking note of all of Councilor Jenkins's future activities. Mike made a mental note to never, ever get on Mrs. Norman's bad side.

As for Johnny, he was the implacable administrator this evening. "I think I speak for us all when I say thank you, Mr. Jenkins."

…for getting lost and staying that way. Also, feel free to get run over, Mike mentally finished Johnny's speech for him. Otherwise he concentrated on making sure his expression stayed grave without any hint of triumph or gloating.

After the board meeting, Mike managed to avoid Jenkins, which wasn't hard because Jenkins was also avoiding him. Mike didn't manage to dodge Miss Marquez, though.

Johnny met up with him outside the mouth of the alley a block down from Cranthorpe House. "Thought you might need some ice pressed against your suffering brow. Or maybe a drink."

"It wasn't all that bad. At least the heat's broken. And Jenkins is out the door. We'll have to see if the mysterious snoops go away now. How about some pie over at Clifton's instead of that drink?"

"I imagine I could be persuaded."

When they were seated at their table -- Mike with a slice of the butterscotch pie -- he noticed Johnny was eyeing him critically. "Is there a smudge on my tie?"

"Just making sure Ina didn't leave any visible bruises."

"No, I got to keep my skin intact, as well as keeping my position on the board." Mike shook his head at his pie. "Whether I wanted said position or not."

Johnny kept up his critical study while he steadily ate orange Jell-O with peaches. Remove that strange relationship with the Big Fellow in the Sky, and he would have made an excellent trial lawyer. After a few minutes of this study, Mike put down his fork and asked Johnny politely, "Was there something else?"

"Funny, that was what I meant to ask you in regards to Ina." Johnny's eyes crinkled in amusement.

"Oh, all right." Mike pushed away his plate. "I'll be teaching a few classes to adults at Cranthorpe House, just for a while, until they can find someone better."

"Anything interesting?"

Not fooled by the seraphic tone of that question, Mike eyed him warily. "American civic institutions. Miss Marquez believes I'll bring a unique perspective to the material that has to be covered for the adult citizenship test."

Johnny laughed as if the usual calling crane was being tickled by three lady cranes. Mike sighed and reached into his suit coat pocket for his bag of wintergreen pillow candies.

Later, after they had retired to Mike's office for a postmortem of the Cranthorpe House investigation -- one that had somehow stretched to including quick, but enjoyable, hand jobs for two -- Johnny asked Mike, "You satisfied with how all this turned out?"

Mike shrugged. "Well, no one else is dead, which is usually a good sign. Also, Cranthorpe House is still going and might even manage to get its finances back in order, which was the original point."

"Might have a new enemy."

"He'll have to stand in line. I doubt he'll do anything else physical since I brokered the deal that let him depart with his trousers singed but not on fire. I'll just have to be more careful on those special social occasions for a while, in case he's petty enough to try for some revenge before his next scheme gets going and he's busy."

Johnny cleared his throat. "I might be able to help with that. The special social occasions."

"Oh?" Mike raised his eyebrows. "Does this mean you're accepting my invitation for another relaxing weekend in Ocean Park?"

"Funny you should mention that. The Reverend Pritchard -- your neighbor, Mrs. Higgins's minister -- just telephoned me and asked if I'd be willing to substitute for him when he goes north for a family wedding next week."

"That's useful, I suppose," Mike said. Then he reconsidered. "Does this mean, as your host, I'll be expected to attend services?"

"No, you don't have to. Although I'm told I still preach a good sermon."

Mike gave him a milder version of the significant look.

"There'll be coffee and cakes afterward. While you were busy telling Mr. Higgins what to do about his parking ticket, Mrs. Higgins was telling me she knows an excellent recipe for wintergreen cake. Take thirty-six wintergreen pillow candies and--"

"For the sake of my nerves, I'll need them all," Mike told him. "And I'll decide how good a preacher you are."

"Members of the congregation usually do."

"And I'm not going to church -- once -- because I’m somehow changing my ways. This will always be how I am."

"Seems about right since I love you as you are."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Likewise, I'm sure."

"Although I admit I'm glad you decided to stay away from the cigarettes."

"All your fault. Yours, and wintergreen's."

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note about the historicity of this story: it's better than you might think. Documented, as opposed to literary, Los Angeles history was sometimes even murkier and yet more gaudy than what you'll see in film noir. The few lawyers who would defend accused homosexuals really were a colorful group of antiheroes who occasionally almost rose to heroism. And, as to the Reverend Johnny -- Well, the founders of the MCC and its clergy allies didn't spontaneously manifest from a vacuum, as even a heathen like me knows. *Doffs imaginary hat to Mr. Rodgers*
> 
> Otherwise, this story was originally published commercially through a small press, but all rights have reverted to me, where they remain. The usual fandom, not-for-profit permissions apply. Given the obvious fannish influences and tropes, it seemed possible to post it here. I hope you enjoy!


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